Penance
by kaeyes
Summary: Set several months after The All has been forgiven, but never Sherlock knows ..but what will he do about it? 17 This is my first story so reviews are more than Rated T for
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock!"

The terse outburst was, as John sadly expected, moot. Sherlock continued to stare longingly out the window, ignoring any and all pleas from John to break the trance. Two days ago John went so far as to throw a book squarely at Sherlock's head; the surge of frustration was met only with unbearable silence.

John couldn't take it anymore.

In the past week, Sherlock solved more cases than he had the all month before combined. He'd played the eerie violin song once an hour, always seventeen minutes after the strike of the clock, for four days straight. John risked an icy stare by asking if he was thinking of Ms. Adler; Sherlock responded with a confused look. "Who's that?"

Maybe it would pass over, John told himself. But time passed, cases were turned down, and, one morning, the violin was discovered, all but the tip of the handle burnt to the crisp.

But John's therapy sessions weren't going well. In fact, he was rather annoyed at the doctor. You need to forgive him, she said. Well hadn't he? Hadn't he kept his flat mate? Hadn't he followed Sherlock around like a dog, always ready to pitch in on the latest scandal? Hadn't he looked past the suicide, the deceit, the lies, the pain? He was here, wasn't he?

His psychologist backed off and suggested that, perhaps, Sherlock hadn't forgiven himself.

"Sherlock Holmes has no concept of regret," John said through gritted teeth. Some would call him bitter; he considered himself a realist.

"Maybe not regret," she offered. "Penance, though. That's a thought."

"There's no difference."

"He owes you. He came back to you, Mr. Watson." She stood and adjusted her skirt. Picking up a book, she looked out the window. John wanted to hit her then, the way she gazed across the street. It was the same empty look Sherlock watched the sky.

"Isn't it possible," she said, slowly, "that he wants to make it up to you? I've seen his pictures in the paper. There's something in his eyes. Pain, I don't know. He's not my patient. But I've been practicing a long time, John, and that right there is a man with guilt. Let him make it up to you."

John shuffled in his seat. "Even if that's true…how?"

She shrugged. "What do you want most from him?"

And, now, watching Sherlock gaze out the window, John knew what he longed for: a connection.

He wanted to know the man he had looked up to for so long. Sherlock knew everything about John since the moment he laid eyes on him; really, he probably knew eighty percent of John's life before he even walked through the doors of that laboratory. Yet John knew zilch.

"Sherlock," John said, almost whispering from fear, "I want to talk to you about something."

It was the first time in days John had tried for his attention without raising his voice or thrusting objects towards his direction. Something in his newly submissive state rocked Sherlock, rang deeply in his mind, and he made eye contact.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was staring out the window again, no longer ignoring but contemplating. "I'd rather not answer that, John. Anything else, sure, but not that."

"No. No, tell me."

"Why do you care?"

"I want to know."

The question wasn't a difficult one. It wasn't a matter of opinion. It wasn't _too_ personal. It was fact, meager data.

"My childhood is none of your concern. Why you would ask of it is mindboggling."

"Where did you go to school, then?"

"John."

John sighed. Maybe the doctor was wrong. Sherlock didn't need to make penance; he didn't mind that John was still hurting, that every mention of the fall stung like a bullet to his chest. He'd never cared before, and he wouldn't start now. People don't change.

Retreating into the kitchen, John sat at the small table and played silently with the salt shaker. He didn't want to leave the apartment; even less did he want to talk. He hated himself for trying. What did he expect? A love-fest? A cry-infested afternoon where true feelings were exposed and confirmed?' "I think I'm going to look for another place," John heard himself say. He jumped at his own words and shot a look to catch Sherlock's reaction. Nothing.

John nodded and bit his lip. He stood, heavily, suddenly feeling the weight of himself. Nausea overwhelmed his senses; numbness attacked his limbs; something caught in his throat. Before he was aware Sherlock even moving, the man was suddenly in front of him, holding onto his shoulders, supporting him in every way possible.

"John. Sit."

The room spun, slowly at first. "Sherlock, we need to….I don't know how to tell you…"

Sherlock sat him down and covered him in a blanket. "You're in shock," he said with something of a grin. John didn't smile back. "We'll talk later."

"No. It's always later. I'm sick of waiting for later. Later never comes."

Sherlock felt his forehead. Boiling. A cold sweat radiated from John as though he'd just stepped out of the shower. "You're sick. Emotionally or physically, I'm not sure, but it doesn't matter. You need rest. We'll talk in the morning."

"I won't be here in the morning!" John said, unaware his voice was raising. "As far as I know, neither will you."

"Where is this coming from? Don't work yourself up."

John leaned in, closer to Sherlock's face than he'd ever been before. He suddenly realized that Sherlock smelt faintly of aftershave and shoe polish. His eyes were an intense blue, the kind of blue that he'd find on a caring, calming individual. Not a cold, stoic detective. His hair was clean and organized, but not so organized that it seemed to require any effort. In that moment, more than ever before, John loathed this man.

He loathed the being who was so interesting, so unique, so unbelievable, that he had to be real. And he was real, he was right here, but then he wasn't. His body was never far but his mind was always gone, always unattainable. John would never stimulate him intellectually; he would never be enough reason for him to just…to just _stay_.


	3. Chapter 3

Two hours had already passed, and nothing was accomplished. John threw up four times, three of which Sherlock watched and one of which caused Sherlock himself to vomit. Refusing to go to bed, he sat on the floor, leaning against his chair, shaking in the so-called shock blanket.

Sherlock kept silent, hands folded as though he were in prayer, watching John. He received no eye contact; John simply stared at the floor, as though life depended on it.

"I don't think you're sick."

"Thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose, seemingly, in offense. John cursed himself for snapping but offered no apology.

"What I mean, John, is that your illness is caused by stress. Not virus or bacterium. That being said, I propose we deal with the cause, so you feel better." He paused, looking, again, out the window. "Then we can stop talking about this moving-out nonsense."

"I tried to talk to you," John said after a moment's pause. With each word his body trembled. "You wouldn't have it."

"I don't know how to talk about it."

"About what?"

"You know."

"Do you?"

Sherlock huffed and stood. "I'm aware…I'm aware that you were hurt, John, in the recent events. I refuse, however, to take blame. You have no reason to be bitter. I did what I needed to do to insure your safety. It was an act of friendship—kindness, John—and for that I will never apologize."

"You could have told me."

"No."

"You could have trusted me. Have you heard of trust, Sherlock? It's this thing people do when they care about another."

"Don't insult me."

"You insult me every day. It's my turn." John tried to stand but couldn't muster the strength.

"You are making yourself physically ill because I refuse to bring up my childhood. Is that a good enough reason? Why do you care where I went to school? Why do you want to know about my family? It doesn't _matter_, John."

"I'm not just upset about that." He tried once more to stand and, again, failed. Sherlock walked over, humbly, and lifted John into the chair.

"Please try to relax," Sherlock said. His voice was suddenly calm; how John wished he could control himself like that. But he was a soldier, designed to react to any situation with deliberate passion and anger. Sherlock, then, was a machine, carefully calculating and consciously countering against life's greatest puzzles.

"Sherlock," John started, "I need you to know that this isn't easy for me."

"What isn't?"

"Living with you. You're not an easy person to deal with. You know that. But I could always manage. I like your line of work; I like watching your mind work. I admire the way you can look at a painting and spot a misplaced star; I'm amazed at your ability to read lies in the way people walk and talk. It's amazing. I love it."

"Then stay." Sherlock's words weren't a plea; they were simply a logical answer to a seemingly fictional problem.

"You don't feel the same. About me. You could care less what I do. What I did. Moriarty was right; I'm ordinary. I'm a pet."

"Of course I care about you. I died to save you."

John stayed silent, not sure what to say. Sure, he "died," but in the process he lied—to the world and to him.

Sherlock walked to the window and peered out. His eyes were bright in contemplation; his jaw was cocked in frustration. "I can't make you see it. We can talk all day, if you'd like, but it won't change a thing. Whether you choose to realize it or not, I care about you. I sacrificed for you. I wouldn't do that for anyone else. Not my brother, not Ms. Hudson. Not even Molly or…" His voice caught in his throat. "Not even Adler."

John wasn't sure if he believed him or not. "If you cared, you would open up to me. I don't need to know every detail of your life, Sherlock, but I need to know something. Where did you grow up? What was your family like? Why, for the world's sake, have you been staring out that window for days?"

Sherlock self-consciously broke his gaze out the window. He sat in his chair and leaned forward. "If you know who I am, I won't be as amazing. Hero's roots are never glorious as their rescues. Especially not when they're not even heroes at all, but only perceived as such."

"I don't think you're a hero."

"Yes you do." Sherlock nodded. "Yes. You're wrong, but everyone needs a hero. Everyone needs that person they can look up to. For some reason, you've chosen me."

"Everyone?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, slowly leaning back into the comfort of his chair. He was emotional, and John could tell. "Everyone except you."

"I have heroes."

"Who?"

Sherlock swallowed and looked away, towards the window. He cleared his throat and stood. "If I haven't made that clear to you, John, then I've failed you." With that he walked into his room and, without another word or glance, shut the door.


	4. Chapter 4

John would have knocked on the door. Really. He thought about it for hours but couldn't bring himself to do it. He told himself he was too sick.

Instead he walked, weakly, back to his chair. Sherlock was…overdramatic? No. He hated drama unless he was the one cleaning it up and sorting the details. John decided he was guilty, then, but that didn't work either. If he felt remorse, Sherlock would have disclosed information.

John couldn't deduce what Sherlock was feeling, but he did know one thing—Sherlock did not see him as a hero. No one did, really, except for those few patrons still grateful for a soldier's sacrifice. Sherlock was simply flattering in order to avoid the problem.

But Sherlock didn't flatter.

John made it to the window—it took longer than he'd like to admit, but he made it. His eyes searched for anything out of the ordinary but found nothing.

"Sherlock," he called after a moment, "Do come here a moment."

No answer. Typical.

"Sherlock!"

John sighed again when there was no answer and went to Sherlock's door. The room was tucked away so perfectly that, if the men ever had any visitors, they wouldn't know the room was there. John supposed that was on purpose.

He didn't bother knocking. Sherlock minded, of course. He threw such a hateful glance that John considered leaving; instead he sat at the foot of the bed.

Sherlock was facing the wall in fetal position, brooding. John looked around the room. Notes, legal documents, string, pens, files, computers. Nothing personal. Nothing that resembled more than an office. Actually, it was less than an office. No pictures of loved ones or useless knickknacks could be found. John found himself rather depressed, sitting there in the strange man's bedroom.

"Sherlock—"

"Leave."

"Now, listen. We're going to talk. I've thought about it, and I've decided we need it, whether you want it or not."

Sherlock sat up. John couldn't help but feel he was scolding a misguided son. "Have you, John? Have you decided, at last? Incredible. I don't remember the last time you made a decision on your own. I'm not shocked it's a stupid one."

"What is your problem?"

"I'm not the one with a problem! I'm not the one who had a psychosomatic limp and a therapist. I'm not the one who wakes his flat mate up every night with nightmares!" John's face immediately fell. He regretted it the instant it happened, but Sherlock saw that he'd been hurt. Sherlock had screamed the words in a tone John had never heard before; it was more hateful than even the tantrums Sherlock barked against Anderson. It was personal.

"Right." John cleared his throat and stood. "I'll be off, then. You win. Start looking for a new flat mate."

Sherlock grabbed a beige lamp John hadn't noticed and slammed it against the wall, shattering it to pieces. "No! I will not! Stop it, John, just…just stop it!"

John never saw Sherlock cry before. He hoped to never see it again.

"Stop threatening to leave. I won't have it anymore. I won't. I can't lose you again." Sherlock was trembling now; he wasn't used to loose emotions. He didn't know what to do with this new, boiling rage.

"You've never lost me." John was quiet, calm. He knew how to comfort a dying soldier.

"I spent a year without you. I could only watch you from afar. Do you understand? I had to leave because I cared about you. It's like those sappy romance novels, John. I had to let you go. I'm sorry, but I honestly didn't mean to hurt you. It was the only way." Sherlock sat at his desk, gripping his hair between his fists. "And now you want to leave. I can't deal with that, John. I can't. I can't tell you my past because then you'll know the truth, and if you know the truth, you won't accept me anymore. Why can't things be kept in the dark? Please, John, don't make me talk about my past. Don't make me open up. I can't. I'm the way I am for a reason. Accept the fragment of a man I am or forget me."


	5. Chapter 5

"I won't. Stop it."

John hit Sherlock on the side of the head, gently but strictly, and held out the cup of coffee. "I wasn't asking."

Sherlock sighed (loudly enough to receive a warning glance) and took the cup. It was the next morning; John had woken him up at five-thirty wanting to talk. His only apology was caffeine, something Sherlock was too bitter to accept at such an early hour.

The two spent the night before with Sherlock in silence and John in reassurance-mode. _Whatever you tell me, I'll never hate you. _Sherlock hardly believed that. His secrets were too dark, too deep, to be shared.

But he had nodded and promised to, when he was ready, confess. It was all lies; apparently John knew and was relying on the ungodly hour and superficial cease-fire to provide answers.

"So." John sat in the adjacent seat and laid out several biscuits and jams. "How was your night?"

Sherlock had accepted the coffee but would not drink it. Instead he held the cup in his hand and glanced out the window. "Short."

The smile on John's face didn't waver. He was trying. Hard. "Right. Well, I figured I could make breakfast for the two of us. You know, to give us an opportunity to talk again."

"John, if you think you're getting anything out of me right now, you're mistaken. Any minute now that phone is going to ring with a case, or Ms. Hudson will need something, or the view out that window will change."

"Oh. No, of course not." John followed Sherlock's glance out the window; Sherlock instinctively looked away, suddenly bashful. "No, you don't have to tell me anything this morning. I don't expect you to. But, you know, we haven't talked all that much since…since you've been back. I thought it would be a good chance to catch up."

"At the crack of dawn?"

"I couldn't sleep much. I heard you tossing around all night too."

It was true that Sherlock couldn't sleep either, but it had nothing to do with their conversation.

"So you don't want to talk about my past."

"No." John sipped his coffee and took a bite of his food. "I thought we'd talk about the other day. That's fair, right?"

"What about it?"

"The window."

"Oh John." Sherlock curled up in his chair and looked at the doctor. He was still sick but was trying to hide it; the sleeve of John's sweater was wet with drainage and coughing; his eyes were slightly red. The soldier was sitting with perfect posture, something he never did unless he was trying to appear more collected than he really was. Dr. Watson was sick, emotionally. Perhaps biologically.

"Come on Sherlock. It's compromise."

Sherlock sighed and stood. He motioned for John to follow him to the window; surprised, John hurried towards the detective. "What do you see?"

John saw bricks. Several pedestrians walked by, most taking their time. The trees had already lost most of their leaves and the taxi cabs were hunting out customers on the beautiful day. "It's an ordinary day to me. I imagine you see something else."

Sherlock shook his head and looked down, refusing to make eye contact. "No, it's not." His lip pursed into a scowl. "It's winter."

John cleared his throat and put down his breakfast. "Yes."

"Well don't you see? It's going to start snowing any day now."

"Yes," John said slowly. "It's snowed every winter lately. You've never freaked out before."

John knew Sherlock didn't like snow despite his love of the cold. John came home many days to find Sherlock working hard on a case, seemingly apathetic to the apartment's thermostat set at forty degrees F. Snow, however, was a nuisance, a pest that destroyed evidence and hid clues. Snow also meant that John would be out of the apartment much more often—ever since he was a teenager, running in the snow was mentally and physically exhilarating to the young Watson. Snow meant loneliness for Sherlock—it meant less cases and less John.

Yes, John knew Sherlock hated it. But his hatred never got to the point of staring out a window for weeks.


	6. Chapter 6

"You'll start running again."

"Soon."

"I'll be low on cases."

"Probably."

"What am I supposed to do with myself?"

"I don't know; what have you done every other winter?"

Sherlock sighed. "Kept myself occupied."

"Then do that again." John stood to throw away the remains of his meal; Sherlock hadn't bothered even to taste it, and John was annoyed enough that any more sounded nauseating. He placed the dishes in the sink—well, that wasn't honest. Really he threw them in. He was pretty sure the knife cracked a little.

"No, you don't see. My boredom…it's been through the roof since I've been back."

"Ah." John turned to face his flat mate and ran his hand through his hair. "Well. Sorry I'm such a bore. I'm sure your life of death was much more exhilarating; why don't you go play that game again? Because I'm an _adult_, Sherlock, and I have bills to pay and a body to shape up. I also have friends who tell me things instead of pretending to be mysterious. If life here with me is so _dreadfully boring_, leave it."

"You misunderstood." Sherlock was sitting, again looking out the window. John hated him then.

"Did I? Enlighten me, then. You understand everything, right? What did I miss this time? Because I'm pretty sure—_pretty sure_—that you just said you've been bored since you've been back in my life. I don't see much room for interpretation."

"I'm bored when you're not here. John! Are you listening?" John had walked away and was grabbing his coat. "Listen to me. I'm bored out of my mind when you're away. I can't think properly. The last few cases I've solved, I only understood them when you were home. With me. Now that winter is here, you'll be out more. You run, for some reason you get more dates. You find things to do, you volunteer more at the clinic. What am I supposed to do? I swear, I spent a year apart from you, and now that I'm back, I'm lost without you. I don't understand it. I don't. But I've been staring out that window because I'm dreading. I'm dreading the winter. I'm dreading the day you get sick of me and move out." Sherlock slammed his fist against the coffee table, harder than he meant to or knew he could, and drew blood. He looked at it with vague recognition and sank, defeated, into John's chair.

John cleared his throat, sniffed, and went to the kitchen to grab his first-aid kit (one of dozens located strategically in the house). He bent down and, after disinfecting the wound, wrapped it tightly. Sherlock let the doctor do what he wished, mostly because Sherlock was in another world. He had sunk into that mindset that each and every one of us has, that place where self-loathing and pity parties thrive. John, right then, was not even in the room. Only Sherlock and Guilt.

"Sherlock," John said, perhaps in the strongest, most confident voice he'd ever used, "I'm not going anywhere."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock had locked himself into the bathroom. Again. For some reason, the man refused to allow anyone see him vomit. Not even John, whose earlier sickness was, apparently, not emotional but very biological and very, very contagious.

The sickness broke through right after John's millionth question. If Sherlock was afraid of losing John, why did he waste all the time staring out a window? How long had he felt that way? Why hadn't he said anything? The answers were all routine and guarded ("I don't know;" "I don't keep track of time;" "Yes, I'm aware I don't make any sense."). One too many questions had sent Sherlock running for the bathroom and John running after him; the difference was that Sherlock made it to the loo and John arrived to a slammed door.

Despite not feeling a hundred-percent himself, John assumed his usual doctor mode. When Sherlock emerged, he found three cups of tea (two for him even though John knew he'd barely touch one), a bottle of water (probably boiled out of paranoia), cough drops (which made Sherlock sick to merely look at), and a shock blanket (well…that was okay). No doctor was found, however, but Sherlock was too weak, emotionally and physically, to look. Instead he spread his lanky, sweating body over the couch, covered himself in the bright-orange blanket, and attempted to whimper himself to sleep.

When John appeared half an hour later, Sherlock was so excited to see him that he stood quickly and, not surprisingly, fainted right back on the couch. John sighed, bothered by the man's stupidity and carelessness, and set down the soup he'd spent the last hour preparing.

He looked at the man who'd left him, threatened to leave him, and now despised even the thought of being more than several yards away from him. Even when he was sleeping Sherlock didn't look at peace; his brow stayed furrowed and his hands managed to meticulously tap away at the couch's fabric.

The next two hours and forty-seven minutes were spent watching television, Sherlock, and the window. At two hours and forty-eight minutes, Sherlock stirred, mumbled to himself, and sat up in such a hurry that John expected him to faint again. The man was drenched in sweat and smelled of salt and some unidentifiable but recognizable chemical.

"What happened?"

"You threw up for a good hour and passed out on the couch. Don't worry, it's just the flu."

Sherlock sighed and again spread his lean body over the cushions. "I'm not drinking the tea."

"Yes you will."

"Fine, but I won't take cough drops. I won't."

John let himself laugh quietly and stood to check his arrangement. The tea and soup, of course, were ice cold, the water was lukewarm, and Sherlock was on fire. He threw the cough drops at him and walked towards the kitchen; on his way out the bag hit him squarely in the neck.

"Sherlock!"

"No."

John sighed and returned with cough syrup, Sherlock's second archenemy (after Moriarty; but he was dead so John supposed this was now Number One). Sherlock shook his head weakly and began to fuss but John interrupted.

"I'll grab your pajamas in a minute. If you want me to I'll reheat your soup. It should still be good. I know you probably have chills but I'll have to take that blanket away from you and bring you something lighter. You're burning up. Stay hydrated, will you? I know you don't have too much of a cough, but the drops should soothe your throat. The syrup with bring your temperature down, which…" John stuck a thermometer into an unenthused Sherlock's mouth and waited patiently for the beep. "…is a hundred and two F. Thermometers don't lie."

Sherlock began to object, probably with some scientific data on the idiotic device that was a thermometer, but John ignored him and, quite boldly, shoved an entire tablespoon and syrup down Sherlock's long, slender throat.

Just because Sherlock was feeling guilty and weak didn't mean he'd lost his smart-aleck, ornery edge. He spit out the syrup, which—though he claims this part was purely accidental—splattered over John's lower face and crisp, white shirt.

The accident was almost enough to guilt him; Sherlock took his medicine, but only after making John bring him strong ginger ale to diminish the taste. He also changed into his pajamas with little complaint, ate one—"Just _one_, John"—cough drop, and drank almost half of the water. He would not, under any circumstances, give up his blanket. John decided four out of five was good enough.

"Do you still think I was _emotionally _sick, then?" John asked. Sherlock shot back a glance and retreated into his blanket. "Right. Well, it's only ten o'clock. You'll have all day to rest. I should be able to get back by, oh, two, if everything goes alright."

"Where are you going?" Sherlock's question reeked of insecurity and scrutiny.

"I told you, didn't I? I'm going to run some errands. I need to buy some more syrup—don't give me that look; you're taking more later—and I desperately need a few things from the grocery. Do you need anything? Some crackers might settle your stomach. Then I'll drop off a few things at the post. Oh, and at noon I'm meeting Mycroft."

"What?"

"Well, he, uh, he's been asking about you. And I said I'd meet him for coffee to catch up. I haven't talked to him in quite some time, honestly. I think it'll be good. He cares about you."

"You can't leave."

"Sherlock, I've got to get these things done." John looked out the window and patted his knees. "Sound good? I won't be long, I promise." He instinctively gave Sherlock one of those half-hugs that were oh-so-fully awkward. But today Sherlock kept his mouth shut and nodded pensively. "Good. I'll let Ms. Hudson know you're here. She'll keep an eye on you. Stay put."

Sherlock had nodded his agreement, but John hadn't been out of the flat for more than ten minutes when the snow began to fall; it wasn't but ten seconds later than Sherlock—sick, needy, poor Sherlock—was out the door.


	8. Chapter 8

The snow is what did it. Obviously. Had it not snowed, Sherlock would have managed—he swears he would've—to be alone for a few hours. He was suddenly dependent but not so dependent that he could not stay put. But the bloody snow. What timing.

Its presence so rattled the good detective that he, without even contemplating a second thought, burst downstairs (pajamas, shock blanket and all). Down the first flight he went fairly quietly, somehow having enough sense to not alert Mrs. Hudson. The poor woman was already half asleep anyways, despite promising John—four times—that she would, under any and all circumstances, make sure Sherlock behaved.

He didn't bother about the outdoor steps. He was free and he had a pretty good idea where the doctor was headed. Up Baker Street several blocks, two lefts, five alleys, and three jaywalks later, he would meet up with John. That is if he was going to the grocery store first—which he was, Sherlock was certain, since John had already had his membership card out. Plus the doctor was rather routine-based; the grocery store was not the best choice for first—what if he got something cold?—but John was stubborn.

He could take a cab instead, but Sherlock was equally certain that he could run, even in his current condition (which had, honestly, vanished from his thoughts), quicker than a cab could take him.

He would meet up in seventeen minutes, give or take, and then he would tell John…well, he wasn't sure what he'd tell him. Not to be clueless. Not to leave without him. Not to make him sick. Not to take a cab when ice is already slick on the road.

The ice was slick, quite slick, and even though Sherlock was thinking about it, he wasn't _really _thinking about it, at least not as it concerned him. So with the tunnel-vision mindset of the world's most determined individual, Sherlock Holmes set out to find his doctor with a quick sprint down the stairs.

A quick, short sprint.

The second step was his downfall. Sherlock's large feet and disillusioned mind were no match for the icy, lightly dusted journey. He fell, backwards, seeing images of cough syrup and doctors and snowfall, wondering why—_why_—he had to keep on falling.

His leg hurt. Oh for the love of…why did his leg hurt so badly he wanted to disconnect from it? He sat up, slowly, not able to ignore the stares from pedestrians. He supposed someone would have helped him had it not been for the old blue pajamas and scratchy orange blanket. He imagined he looked awful, pale and red-eyed and just plain sick, and he was right.

Pain was no stranger. Demanding cases and equally demanding school bullies made sure of that. The problem was that he couldn't exactly pinpoint the pain; first it was in his leg, then his ankle, then his knee. Oh, who was he kidding, he hurt all over.

It was this muddled detective who managed to lean forward and, when a lovely stranger walked by, asked where exactly John was.


	9. Chapter 9

John was home by noon. It would have been earlier, but Ms. Hudson didn't go up to check on Sherlock until she woke up from her half-nap; by the time John realized his phone was ringing he was half way across London.

He couldn't get much out of her. _Sorry. So sorry. Really, love. He just…he got out. Come see. He wants you._

So John ran, then he got a cab, and then he ran some more. He wished he knew the city like the back of his hand, like Sherlock. He pulled up and there, right there, outside the front door, was a shivering, dead-looking Sherlock and a petrified, saddened Ms. Hudson.

"No." John ran up, prepared to fall on his knees in grief, when Sherlock's eyes opened and, rather dramatically, rolled.

"Really, John, we've been waiting. Which route did you take?"

John could have hit him then, but it looked like Sherlock had already taken a beating. "Sherlock," he said through gritted teeth, "I'm hoping you can explain—really explain—what happened."

"I fell. It's this snow, John. I warned you."

"No. No, I don't care about that." A twinge of pain flashed over Sherlock's face. "That's not what I meant. I do care but…Sherlock. Why were you out here? I told you to stay put. You're feverish and sitting in…for heaven's sake, why are you still out here?"

"He wouldn't let me take him in," Ms. Hudson said, almost in tears. "He wanted to wait for you. I tried to reason with him but he wouldn't listen."

"Sherlock."

"I wanted you to examine it first. I didn't want to walk until I knew it was safe."

John sighed as he sat on the steps. He hated snow too. "We'll talk about this later. What's wrong now?"

Sherlock lifted both his pant legs and John sighed—deeply. "Okay. Ms. Hudson, could you call an ambulance?"

"Oh don't be so—" Sherlock started.

John felt his forehead. "Don't. Don't argue. You're burning up, in the cold, probably with broken ankles. How did you manage to hurt both?" Sherlock shrugged, a faint look of pride glimmering in his smile. "You're going to the hospital. I don't care if you say otherwise."

Sherlock agreed, as long as John didn't try to get him inside first and, most importantly, that John rode in the back of the ambulance with him.

In silence, the ambulance came, Sherlock was loaded up, John followed, and Ms. Hudson retreated home. Sherlock watched with fascination (John with disgust) as an IV was slipped into his arm. Sherlock asked questions of the doctors as John shut his eyes in embarrassment ("No, Mr. Holmes, I'm _not_ sure what bathing in vinegar daily would do to the digestive system."). And, as the day was finally coming to an end, Sherlock asked their cabbie how familiar he was with driving on snowy roads, while John tried—really, really tried—to catch a moment of sleep. Yet this was enjoyable compared to watching Sherlock hobble on his newly hated crutches.


	10. Chapter 10

"Actually, no, you don't have any right to complain." John was pacing, something Sherlock loved to watch. When John Watson paced, John Watson went back and forth in soldier-style, shoulders straight and eyes looking directly ahead. He looked formal but his hand gestures were anything but. He was a fish out of water.

"You have a high fever. When you're sick you don't leave bed, you don't travel down stairs, you don't sneak out, and you don't break an ankle." John huffed and sat in his chair.

Pity. Sherlock wanted him to pace some more. "I wasn't in bed. I was on the couch."

"Sherlock, don't test me."

"I'm not testing you, I'm just saying—"

"You're not right in the head. You came down dressed in pajamas and covered in a shock blanket. What if you hadn't slipped? Would you have kept going? I didn't even go to the grocery store first; I know that's what you were betting on. Mycroft moved our meeting up. I was with your brother when Ms. Hudson called me. So, yes, I'm sure he'll be visiting shortly."

Sherlock moaned.

"Well?"

"I'm tired, John. Let's not do this now."

"You're tired. Oh. I didn't think tired people did what you did tonight."

Sherlock looked at him blankly, stared for a while, and hobbled into the loo. Down the bowl went all the medication the hospital gave. Luckily (unluckily?), Sherlock was too ill to shut the door in John's face. He offered Sherlock a wet rag and, when ignored, placed it on the back of the detective's neck.

"Go away," Sherlock said between heaves. John ignored him but he was adamant. "Get out. I'm fine."

Sherlock spent the next twenty-one minutes curled up against the toilet; John was right there the entire time. When Sherlock wanted to leave, John allowed the detective to lean on him until they reached the couch. Sherlock fell down, oblivious (for once) to his surroundings.

"There you are." John covered the detective with a lighter blanket he'd bought before meeting Mycroft. When Sherlock threw it off, John caved and gave him the shock blanket. He moved the tight black curls away from the heated forehead and made three more cups of tea, all of which would probably go to waste. He closed the blinds, switched the television off, and turned off all the lamps. Sherlock buried himself into the couch, nearly suffocating himself, and John let him.

He slept for ten hours.

It wasn't until after John decided to go to bed that Sherlock moved. The man snored—"Yes you do;" "I do not."—but the snore with which he awoke was several times louder than any grunt he'd previously given.

John jumped at the sound and walked over to check his temperature. "How're you feeling?"

Sherlock obediently clamped down on the thermometer and twisted his neck, arms, and legs for good measure. "I weel gait," he said with a big grin.

"Good. You're down to 99. It's a start. After we get some food in you, you should be…no, Sherlock, wait, remember your…no!"

Sherlock had, with the excitement of a recently healed man, thrown off the blanket, planted down both feet, and taken two large steps before (again) falling to the floor.

The doctor ran over to his patient and gently but swiftly placed Sherlock on the couch as his screams turned into whimpers. "Your ankle, Sherlock. You broke it. The other one's not in great shape either." He pointed to the crutches. "Remember?"

Sherlock flung his pant leg up and stared at the neatly wrapped bandage. He noticed his wrapped hand as well and, with defeat, covered his face. "Look at me, John. I'm a cripple."

"You'll be fine in no time. Just don't walk on it, for my sake. And leave them bandaged." John sighed, remembering the last time Sherlock was bandaged—the wrappings stayed on maybe an hour before the curious detective unwrapped the wound and, in disgust, called for John to fix it immediately.

"It's your fault. That I fell."

John paused for a good forty seconds before replying. He pulled on his ear to make sure he'd heard correctly, and, when that checked out, he cleared his throat and stared. "Sorry?"

"Apology not accepted."

"That's not…Sherlock, you…" John wiped his face and took a deep breath. _He's injured. His hand and ankle is banged up. He's got the flu. He's depressed. I'm exhausted. Let it slide. Let…it…slide._


	11. Chapter 11

"If you'd just kept your promise, John, we wouldn't be here." Sherlock shook his head and reached for the crutches. They were just out of reach but, too proud to ask for help, he remained seated.

"My promise?"

"You said you weren't going anywhere." Sherlock lost patience and, ignoring a disapproving look from John, hobbled over to his crutches. He hated the things. He was already lanky and injured; holding onto sticks didn't help anything.

"I only went to meet your brother and go to the store," John said slowly.

"Well that's _somewhere_, isn't it?" Sherlock made it to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he clumsily pulled out two vials of clear liquid and one of blue goo.

"Oh goodness, no." John followed, grabbed the containers, and thrust them back into the fridge. "You are in no state to start experiments. It's late, I'm tired, and you're still recovering. Go to bed."

"I just woke up."

"I don't care."

"Obviously."

"Sherlock."

"What? I'm bored, John. Let me play. Go run off again; I don't care. I have plenty to keep me occupied." He attempted to open the fridge again, but a soldier's hand pushed it shut.

"You're mad." John leaned against the counter and shook his head. It was taking everything in him not to tackle the pest. "You're mad because I said I wouldn't leave, and I did. I went to grab coffee with your brother. To buy cough syrup for your flu. I wasn't walking out to look for a new flat mate or run off. I was running errands, Sherlock. It's what normal people do. When I said I wouldn't leave, I didn't mean that I'd never leave your side. I meant that you could always count on me. Don't take things so literally. Please."

Sherlock stayed silent, staring at the floor.

"I'm sorry if my leaving made you paranoid. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but you must allow to me to leave the apartment without you."

Sherlock shook his head fervently and tried to walk away. John blocked his exit. "I'm not paranoid," Sherlock tried. "I just…it's snowing, you know? And I, uh, I was sick. I'm not that desperate, you know. It was the flu talking. All of it. Ignore everything I've said. It was just the flu."

"All of it?"

"Yeah. You know. What I said before. I'm not bored. I'm not lonely. You can go out any time you want. I'm just…I'm just sick." Sherlock laughed in a way that made John wince. "You know. If you want to move out, you can. Or stay. It's your choice, really. I'll be fine either way. I'm apathetic. Honest. Ignore all the conversations we've had the last few days. The window thing, I was just…it was pre-sickness, you understand. You're a doctor." He shook his head and laughed again. "Yeah, John, it's whatever. Do whatever. Leave, stay; it makes no difference."

John nodded and crossed his arms. A brief smile crossed his lips. "Yes, of course. And, uh, say I make that choice." His smile was big and cocky now; he even let out a confident chuckle. He was completely calm, completely collected. "Because I think I have."

Sherlock's face fell; he tried to hide it but there was no use. "Oh?"

"Yeah. You know, you've really opened my eyes. These last few days meant nothing. Hey, that year you were dead, we hardly missed each other. I think you're right. I wasn't out getting medicine; I was meeting with potential flat mates. I move out in three days."

Sherlock managed to nod several times before falling forward, barely catching himself on the counter, and letting himself fall to his knees. "Please don't go," he cried out.

John nodded, all suspicions confirmed, and pat his good mate on the shoulder before helping him up. "That's what I thought. Come on, then. Bed time."

"Don't go," he repeated.

"I'm not, Sherlock."


	12. Chapter 12

"That was mean."

"I agree."

Sherlock held the coffee close to his chest. The previous night had been a long one; he'd fallen to pieces on the kitchen floor until John told him five times (it was actually fifteen) that he wasn't actually going anywhere. An hour later, Sherlock retreated to bed, where John stayed in the room an hour (really three) until Sherlock fell asleep. He woke up twice (more like thrice) with nightmares, each of which required the good doctor to say again—again, again—that, no, he wasn't going anywhere. Embarrassed didn't even cover it.

With a blistering headache, throbbing ankle, sore hand, and defeated ego, Sherlock emerged out of his room solemnly at eleven a.m. John was enjoying a cup of coffee while another was sitting across from his chair; he looked up at the tired lump of a detective and smiled. "Hey, bud," he'd said in the most demeaning of voices; Sherlock had actually winced and, after clutching the caffeine, informed the doctor that his little game of well-maybe-I-will-move-out-after-all wasn't well taken, and was rather rude.

"I'm sorry, but you denied everything." Sherlock only nodded his agreement. "I didn't know how else to shut you up. It worked, didn't it?"

Sherlock nodded again. "John, I…"

John stood. "Did you want some breakfast?"

"No." Sherlock cleared his throat and looked at the floor. He felt hung-over, weak. "I want to talk."

It wasn't until John had retrieved two slices of toast, buttered and jellied the living daylights out of them, and finished an enormous cup of coffee when he sat, folded his legs, and told Sherlock to say what he needed to say.

"I burned my violin."

It wasn't exactly how John expected the conversation to start, but it _was_ a start. "Yeah, I saw."

"Maybe we could go…buy a new one?"

John nodded and, patiently, waited.

"I turned down a lot of cases, too."

"Yes.

"We could start looking again. In the papers, you know? Answer phone calls, even. If you wanted."

He nodded again.

"And maybe," Sherlock said, his voice now quite loud, "I could, if you wanted, join you on some of your runs."

"Oh?"

"Not all of them," he said hurriedly. "Just every once in a while. You can go by yourself. I won't leave the apartment. Would that be good?"

John nodded once more and placed down his cup. He folded his hands and watched the detective stare out the window. This was hard for Sherlock; John knew that. He didn't like dealing with problems he himself was involved in.

"Look, John, I overreacted. It's not your fault that I tried to follow you out of the apartment. I still maintain that it was the flu—maybe only partially—that made me do it, but it doesn't matter. It was wrong, and…I'm sorry. Truly. But it's true that I'm afraid that you're going to get a new flat mate. I lived without you for a while, and for some reason, it wasn't…good. I can't think as well. I don't know. But those are my problems, John, not yours. You have your own life. So if you leave the flat, or stay here all day, I'll be here. I won't follow. I won't freak. I promise."

Somewhere in the middle of that speech, John made his way to the coffee table separating them and sat on it, leaning in towards his flat mate. Sherlock was so engrossed in his apology—he didn't do it often—that it wasn't until the end of his delivery that he even noticed the change.

"Sherlock." John forced the detective to make eye contact. "When you were treating me like the idiot I am, only paying attention to cases, did I leave the flat?"

"No."

"No. And when you set the kitchen table on fire, destroyed four of my romantic relationships, ate one of my socks _for scientific purposes_, played your violin at four in the morning, and informed my father that I was dead to see what kind of reaction a father would give _for case purposes_, did I search for a new flat mate?"

Sherlock tried to break eye contact but couldn't really manage. "No."

"No. And, Sherlock, tell me: when you left for over a year, when I thought you were dead, when you told me you were a fake…did I leave?"

Sherlock swallowed and tried to catch his breath. "No."

John squeezed his shoulder. "No, Sherlock, I didn't. You've put me through a lot, yet I'm still here. I thought you were dead, for crying out loud, but instead of getting a new mate, I struggled to pay rent. You're messed up and so am I. So don't insult me by assuming that because of a little spat I'm going to walk out. You're my brother now."

Sherlock blinked through leaky eyes and laughed, probably because he didn't know what else to do. "Oh, John." He stood and, quite appropriately, gave his flat mate something that resembled a hug. He looked and John and sighed in relief. "I'm so glad I don't have to tell you my history anymore."

The fight that ensued lasted almost two hours.


	13. Chapter 13

"Don't. You. Dare."

Sherlock lifted the article higher in the air and opened his mouth.

"Sherlock Holmes, I swear, I know where all the guns are in the flat."

His eyebrows rose suddenly and fell just a quickly. Oh, a challenge. "I'll eat it, John. I will. Take it back."

"Never."

The fight was an hour and five minutes in. Already four apologies had been made—all of which were quickly taken back—three pieces of furniture were broken, and two demands of silence from Ms. Hudson had emerged from the stairs. Now one lonely sock, belonging to a John H. Watson, dangled high above Sherlock's head.

"Do it! Take it back!"

"It's a_ sock_, Sherlock. How _one_ passed through your system with no problem, I have no idea, but it won't happen again. Drop it."

Half an hour later, Sherlock was mercilessly forced to throw up a certain clothing article.

Ten minutes after that, the boys were playing the "No I wasn't;" "Yes you were" game with each other for seven solid minutes.

Four minutes along, a dripping wet John and a sticky Sherlock stared at each other in silence before the knock at the door.

Mycroft let himself in and was already mid-sentence. "...to complain, but I think it best if mum knew about this." He cleared his throat, leaned on his umbrella, and sighed as he took in the sight before him. "Well. Do I ask?"

Sherlock pointed. "He started it."

"I started it?" John looked at Mycroft and shook his head. "He attacked me with the retractable sink nozzle."

"Only after you threw the bottle of cough syrup at me."

"That was because _you_ tried to eat my sock."

"Please." Mycroft sighed and sat next to Sherlock, putting his right arm over his little brother. John smiled, not at all innocently, knowing that Sherlock would rather a python slither across his shoulders. "Gentlemen, let's not argue."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock's words were terse and rigid; his mouth barely opened.

"John called me this morning. Apparently he needed a babysitter to switch shifts with him."

Both Sherlock's and John's face fell. "No, um," John stammered, "I didn't mean…not exactly." He turned to Sherlock, who was not—no, never—making eye contact. "I still needed to run a few errands. I didn't get everything done yesterday. You know. I thought Mycroft could—"

"Babysit."

"—keep you company."

"I just told you I'd be fine waiting here alone," came the protest.

"I called him before that conversation."

"So tell him he can go."

John hesitated just long enough for Sherlock to glare. "Well he's already here; you two might as well talk while I'm gone."

"Quite right."

"Shut up, Mycroft." Sherlock stood, stood taller than he knew he could, and towered over John. "Take me with you or make him leave."

"Don't be difficult." The good doctor was not at all intimidated; annoyed, yes. But never intimidated.

"Well why not? I just told you that you could trust me to manage on my own, and you agreed. Unless you were lying, I think my demands are rather fair."

"That was before we had this argument, Sherlock. I don't trust you by yourself. Not yet." John grabbed his coat, shook his hair like a wet dog, and faced Mycroft. "I'll be home within an hour. Don't let him out of your sight."

Sherlock cursed as the door slammed shut.


	14. Chapter 14

"Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave."

"You're behaving like a chi—"

"Leave."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled then, something rare. His younger brother sank into the chair's cushion as he watched the door; John would be back in fifty-seven minutes, if his word was true. He just had to survive fifty-seven minutes.

"You don't have to stay. I'm sure there's some war you could be starting."

"I do need to stay." Mycroft glanced at Sherlock's hand and ankle and wondered how he'd managed to attack John with the water. "You've been increasingly destructive since you're return. Look at what you've done. John's rightfully worried."

"I'm fine."

"I know you, Sherlock. You may not think of me as a loving brother, but I am observant. You're not the only one who can make deductions."

Sherlock glanced at his brother and, four seconds later, knew that Mycroft had visited Buckingham Palace the day before, somewhat enjoyed a pancake breakfast, and talked with Ms. Hudson on the way up to his flat. He looked away after the forth second, already bored.

"If you say so."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I know that you're clinging onto John like a lost puppy." Sherlock stared. "John didn't tell me. He said you'd been acting strange, that's all. Said you seemed…off. I've made my own deductions. Is it true? Does the great Sherlock Holmes have room in his heart for other people? I think that's it. Did you notice that John actually missed you while you were away?"

"I don't know where you're going with this."

"Don't you? It must have been hard for you to watch him fall apart…or was it? Maybe it was actually, I don't know, nice to see someone miss you for a change." Mycroft leaned forward. "I know meaningful human interaction is new to you. Try not to get carried away. John cares for you, but he's not your nanny, lover, or mum. Don't expect him to be around forever."

"I don't."

"No. That's why you're falling apart." He stood and looked out the window. "I don't know what you're up to, but learn from Big Brother." He smiled and tilted his head. "I know what you did. I know the choices you made. Tell John the truth. He'll find out somehow, someday. Better it come from you."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He would tell John one day, but he knew in his heart that that day would be the day he'd lose the greatest thing that ever happened to him.

The brothers sat in silence for the next forty-two minutes, until—finally, thank heaven—the doctor returned home.


	15. Chapter 15

John found the brothers basically as he'd expected. Sherlock was sprawled over the couch, quite obviously pretending to be asleep (fake snore and all) while Mycroft enjoyed a cup of tea.

"You two look like you've had quite a chat," John said, taking off his coat. Sherlock stretched like a long, black cat and sat up. He looked at John, then Mycroft, and rolled his eyes.

"Quite," Mycroft answered. He stood and shook John's hand. "I'll be off. Do watch after him, John. I don't think anyone can predict his behavior now." He scratched Sherlock's hair; the good detective about died. "I doubt even_ he_ knows what he'll do next."

John thanked Mycroft and hung up his coat. "Are you alright?" He placed down another bottle of cough syrup and a third blanket; this one was still thin but bore the same bright, obnoxious orange as the first. Sherlock raised an eyebrow over it but didn't give a second thought.

"I'm fine. I don't want those."

"Well you haven't even tried the blan—"

"No."

"You're taking the medicine."

"I'm not sick." Sherlock stood and walked around, arrogantly and deliberately placing most of his weight on his ankle. His face grimaced slightly, but even John later admitted that he was slightly impressed. "See? I'm healing fine. I have no fever, no cough, no drainage, and no vomit. I'm perfectly fine."

"It's just a precaution." John disappeared and returned with two white pills. "Here's your pain medication."

"I don't need those."

"Yeah, you do."

"I haven't taken anything other than what the hospital made me take."

The left side of John's lip curled. "You have, actually."

"What?"

"Well I knew you wouldn't take them on your own. When you slept I could usually convince you to take them. You're a riot when you're sleep talking; do you know that?"

"You drugged me." Sherlock shook his head and peered out the window. The snow was still trotting on; the cabs now had no trouble picking up passengers. He sighed. "I suppose you did what you had to do." He took the pills, grabbed one of the cups of tea, and swallowed the medication.

John made him stick out his tongue to make sure he'd actually swallowed.

"Thank you. That was easier than I'd thought."

Sherlock sat and leaned back his head. "Mycroft is dreadful."

"I suppose he can be. He just wanted to check up on you." John stood, looking awkward for a moment, until he sat across the room. "Listen, Sherlock, I'm sorry that I left like I did. I didn't mean to be—"

"I was a pretty normal kid, you know."

Silence.

"It's true. Sure, I was a smart aleck, but wasn't everyone? I was a little shy, too, I think, but I guess that was inevitable.

John didn't dare move. He'd been waiting for information—any of it—for years. And now, without any prodding or poking, here it was.

"I think it was...oh, I must have been twelve. I had always observed, you know, but the shyness wore off and I shared my deductions. My teachers were annoyed beyond understanding. My classmates all hated me; you understand." The faint smile, a token every soul bares when it returns to Memory Lane, faded away from Sherlock's face. "My parents were disgusted. They told me to never do it again.

"I tried for a while but I couldn't keep it all to myself. After a few months, anytime I would say something, my hand was smacked with a ruler." He smiled again. "Mycroft liked it, though. He thought it was a pretty neat trick."

He stopped and looked at John, who was in that awkward state of staring but trying not to seem to interested. Sherlock looked at him and, after looking for, oh, ten and a half seconds, knew that John had cursed out the automated cash register at the drug store, hadn't slept more than ten hours in the last few days, hadn't spoken to his sister in several weeks (and felt slightly guilty about it), and was deeply, painstakingly worried about his flat mate.

Sometimes—most of the time—Sherlock wished he could just turn it off.


	16. Chapter 16

They sat in silence for nearly twenty minutes when John finally got the guts to speak.

"I bet it was relieving," he said slowly. Sherlock made solemn eye contact. "Mycroft could relate to you."

Sherlock nodded and looked at his hand, suddenly distracted. "I despised him for it."

"I don't understand."

"He was the one person who really cared. He saw more than a freak. He saw…potential. I think that's how he put it. I didn't know what to do with it. I wasn't used to the attention."

"I still don't get it."

"Of course you don't." Sherlock smiled sadly. "Imagine if you'd never been cared for before. Imagine if everyone stopped what they were doing when you walked into a party because you were that much of a buzz kill. Imagine that you have no reason to be unhappy—you had a family, an education, enough food to get you through the day. You know there are countless kids that would kill for that hand of cards but it's not enough for you. It's not enough when the family merely puts up with you, when the educating is done in a stifling environment, and the food is only prepared out of necessity—never out of love."

John decided, then, to be more courteous when presenting Sherlock with meals.

"It's fine on paper. Emotionally, not so much. When I finally got what I wanted, I turned it down. I questioned Mycroft's ulterior motives."

John shook his head. "He didn't have any. Why would you reject the one thing you wanted?"

"I didn't know what to do with it!" Sherlock caught himself and took a deep breath. "I know it doesn't make sense. I was afraid of it."

"Of what?"

"Someone caring about me."

The two men sat in silence for several minutes, Sherlock returning to his past and John desperately trying to follow him there. He couldn't.

"I'm very, very grateful that you've told me this," John said softly. "Truly. But…"

"What?"

"Why that? You could have told me anything. I would have been fine with the name of your school, some characteristics about your parents, anything, really. Instead you opened up about the rejection you received and the rejection you gave. Why?"

"It's what friends do."

"Not you. Tell me. Please. Why that story?"

Sherlock looked down at himself. He was still dressed in his light blue pajamas; he desperately needed a shower and a shave. John didn't look much better, but at least he was dressed. Sherlock's hand was faintly bleeding through its wraps, and his ankle was throbbing. The detective was starving but had no desire to eat; he was parched but the very idea of water turned his stomach. He wanted, more than anything, to tell John the truth but he just…he didn't know how.

"Because I've done it again," he heard himself say.

"What?"

Sherlock said nothing and closed his eyes, leaning into his hands.

"What, Sherlock? What did you do?"

"I rejected."

John smiled and cocked his head. "Oh, Sherlock, don't beat yourself up. We've made up. I know you've been exasperating, but it's nothing we can't work through. Remember? The entire time you were gone, I didn't get a new flat mate. We're good. I don't feel rejected."

Sherlock shoot his head fiercely. "No. John, I rejected your care. I rejected your grief and ran away."

John swallowed and looked at the detective. He hoped—prayed, even—that what was crossing his mind wasn't true.

The detective was pacing now, running his injured hand through his tangled hair. "I could have…I could have come back…sooner, John. After I died, I…I stayed away longer than I had to."


	17. The Finale

Sherlock had somehow convinced John to get ready and walk to Speedy's to hold the destined conversation. A pair of jeans and stained t-shirt later, Sherlock considered himself ready. John walked around in a fog; he took his time combing his hair, picking out a shirt, brushing his teeth. He was stalling, prolonging the inevitable heartbreak he was about to experience.

The two walked down silently; Sherlock was polite, holding open doors and hanging his head low. John ignored it all. He pushed out any and all thoughts, including the very profane words running through his mind. They grabbed a table in the corner; Sherlock ordered two salads and John grimaced. Sherlock never ate healthy unless he was trying to put John in a good mood, either because he'd done something stupid or because he was about to do something stupid despite John's protests.

"Did you bring me in public so I couldn't kill you?" John asked.

The great detective couldn't quite tell if he was joking. "I just thought this might be better."

John nodded and watched the other customers. At first he cursed them for their normal lives. He then realized that he and Sherlock probably looked rather normal, so he wondered what hell the others were going through. He took back his curse and offered several blessings.

"How long?"

"What?"

"Well you were gone about a year." John fought the urge to tune out and watch the television or eavesdrop on another conversation. He didn't want to ask. "How soon after the fall were you ready to come back?"

"I wasn't ready until I came."

"How soon after could you have returned, Sherlock?" John checked his volume and cleared his throat. He didn't want to have this talk in public. He didn't want it at all. "How long?"

Their salads were delivered. Sherlock stared at it before answering, considering lying. He quickly threw out the idea; he'd come to be honest.

"Well?"

"Four months."

Dr. Watson tightened his fists until it hurt; he stared at his salad until he could breathe again. His best friend had been gone a full year when he could have been back only after a third of one.

"What did you do…with your time?" John asked after several deep breaths. The two had never really discussed their time apart. Neither could handle it.

"I had to stay dead, at first. Otherwise the assassins would have gotten to you. The press needed time to unveil the 'truth' about me before I returned."

"That was the first four months?" Sherlock nodded. "Then what about the other…_eight._"

Sherlock picked at his salad but wouldn't stick his fork into it. He removed all the cucumbers and put them off to the side. "I didn't know how to come back. I wasn't sure how you'd react."

John remembered how he'd reacted. He'd punched Sherlock twice in the nose; the first had been out of fear, the second out of anger. But after an explanation of true intentions and the necessity of the suicide, John hugged his good friend for a good hour, refusing to let him go for fear of losing him again.

"So you hid for eight more months." John kicked at the table leg and instantly regretted it. "You made me suffer for eight months longer than necessary."

"I didn't know if you wanted me back."

John stood and threw slammed his water glass down. Others stared and he couldn't care less. Not one bit. So with all the intensity of emotion, and with all the blunt volume he could muster, John finally spoke his mind, unedited and unguarded.

"I spent days sitting in that flat, crying my heart out. I didn't go to work for two months. I didn't talk to anyone, not even Ms. Hudson or Lestrade or Molly. I didn't _eat_, Sherlock. I sat at your gravestone and talked about my boring life for weeks after you'd gone. Don't ever tell me that I didn't want you back. Don't ever claim that. I'll break your neck if you do."

John was suddenly aware that he was crying, that the entire restaurant was watching, that his entire body was shaking, and—most unnervingly—that Sherlock was silently letting tears fall. He switched into solider mode, the same way he'd done it that first day at Sherlock's grave, and shook his head. He threw down a few pounds for the salads and walked briskly out of the restaurant.

Sherlock followed meekly, not bothering to make eye contact with anyone around. He stepped outside and felt the sting of winter's cold. John had already disappeared into the flat. _No_. Ignoring the blaring wind and a returning headache, Sherlock sat on the step that had recently caused him so much pain.

He thought of his decisions, his sacrifices, and his mistakes. He wished that he'd never met John and caused him so much pain; a second later he took it back—selfishly, he thought—and decided that he'd never curse the day he met the good doctor.

Maybe he could stay in the basement of Ms. Hudson's home. That was probably too close to John, though. He knew no one in London who would be willing to house him; he'd soon look for a small place outside the city. He'd give John space and time and, maybe—hopefully—the man would one day forgive him.

The door clicked open. John draped Sherlock in the hideous shock blanket and sat next to his friend. "Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

Sherlock thought a moment, slightly stunned that his friend had returned. "You were the last one I told. I went to Lestrade, Molly, and Ms. Hudson first."

John bit his lip. "When?"

"A month before I told you. I wanted to tell you last, because…well. You were the only one that really mattered." Sherlock smiled shyly, but it quickly vanished as he burrowed himself into the blanket.

"Well," John said. He patted Sherlock on the back and looked down Baker Street with a smile. Several years ago it had become home. Over a year ago, it no longer was. Now, at long last, 221B Baker Street was home again. It was whole. He had his selfish, caring, delusional, paradox-ridden Sherlock back. And he was really, too, the only one that mattered.


End file.
